


There Was Only One Dagger

by antivan-beau (sheepsinthenight)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, Sword Flirting, When your friend goads you into writing an obscure rarepair with a silly premise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28573935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepsinthenight/pseuds/antivan-beau
Summary: (looking respectfully) What if we both wanted to kill the Warden-Commander... but there was only one dagger.......
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Nathaniel Howe
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	There Was Only One Dagger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DieRosenrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DieRosenrot/gifts).



Under a dark and moonless sky, Nathaniel Howe hauled himself over a parapet and onto the ramparts of Vigil’s Keep. He pressed his back to the stone rail, peering left then right. Apart from a few stacked crates and barrels, he was alone on the wall.

He moved like a shadow toward the tower at the end of the walkway. Twenty paces away from its base, he stopped, squinting up at a dark window. It had been his favorite spot to sneak out, as a teenager. The irony of sneaking _in_ was not lost on him. 

Unbidden, he remembered knotting his bedsheets and clambering down to bother the maids in the kitchen, or steal a horse from the stable to ride along the starlit coast. Eventually, some soldier caught him and told his father, which put an end to his nighttime adventures.

So long ago, now.

Nathaniel shook himself. Just below the windowsill, he spotted a crack in the wall where weather had widened the seam between blocks of stone. He plucked a coil of rope from his belt, then reached back to draw an arrow from his quiver. The rope was assassin’s silk. His knot around the arrow was strong.

He shrugged his bow from across his shoulder and nocked the arrow. Eyes narrowed, he sighted up the shaft to the windowsill crack. He drew back the bowstring until it sung beneath his fingers.

Ahead of him, something clicked against the cobblestones. Nathaniel risked a glance downward. A pile of wooden crates heaped at the tower's base. Everything was still, but the stacks were tall enough that someone could hide behind them.

Nathaniel’s chest rose and fell in a slow breath. He brought his bow down, angled toward the crates. One more sound would tell him where to fire.

"Pleasant night for a stroll, hmm?"

The voice came from just beside his ear.

Nathaniel whirled around and loosed his arrow. It sailed down the length of the ramparts, trailing the rope behind it, until it lodged into a barrel. Wine began to gush sullenly onto the cobblestones.

The moment Nathaniel turned, there was a whisper of movement beside him. A breath outside the arrow’s path, an elven man leaned against the crenellations. The front sections of his blond hair had been braided back, and the tattoo that curved from cheek to temple stood out against his copper skin. He wore a thoughtful smile, as well as combat leathers sewn with scaled metal plates.

"You might want to be careful where you point that," he said brightly. "That’s the Warden-Commander’s window, if I am not mistaken."

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. "I know. I’m here to kill her."

The elf’s grin gleamed white in the darkness. "What a remarkable coincidence. So am I."

They regarded each other for a pair of heartbeats.

"You’re an Antivan Crow." Nathaniel’s voice betrayed a touch of surprise.

"What gave me away? The armor? The accent? The exotic air of danger?"

"That you’re so bloody casual about this."

The elf shrugged. "Oh, I don’t know about that. I'm quite serious about my work."

Nathaniel considered. His plan was simple. Get in, kill the Grey Warden who’d murdered his father, reclaim a few family heirlooms, get out. The presence of an Antivan Crow didn't necessarily complicate things.

He slung his bow back over his shoulder. With the same movement, he pulled a dagger from a sheath against his spine. When he lowered his arm, he kept the dagger half-concealed by his cloak.

"I don’t care who you are." Nathaniel's voice was a low warning. "And I don't care who paid you, how much, or why. Just stay out of my way."

The assassin crossed his arms over his chest with a little sigh. "You know, normally I'd be pleased to find someone eager to do my job for me. But in this particular instance, I’m not convinced you're up to the task."

_"What?"_

"So if you would be so kind as to climb back down from this Keep, I'd like to get on with the rest of my night."

Teetering somewhere between irritation and bewilderment, Nathaniel moved before his thoughts could intervene. Two steps brought him within arm's reach of the elf. One swift thrust should have punched through his leather armor, a dagger sunk into his gut. Except that as the assassin uncrossed his arms, he too had a dagger in his left hand, deflecting the blow with a ringing parry.

"Not exactly what I expected." The elf tisked as if admonishing a child. "Here I thought you would welcome the help of a professional."

Nathaniel angled another cut toward his midsection. This time, the assassin stepped lightly out of reach.

Nathaniel advanced. “What are you blabbing on about?” 

He made a pair of feints, then ducked in for a true strike. The elf batted his dagger away without apparent effort, and made no attempt to retaliate. "Well, this is your first assassination, is it not?"

A wicked, underhanded slash. A parry like shooing an insect.

"Quit fiddling with me," Nathaniel growled.

"And look at your technique." Suddenly, the assassin was beside him. With his free hand, he gently tugged down on the elbow of Nathaniel's sleeve, bringing his arm lower, like every weapons tutor Nathaniel had faced since he was a boy. "Waving your dagger as if it's some sort of flag? Is that what they teach you in the Free Marches?"

 _How could he know I was in the Free Marches?_ Nathaniel didn't have time to interrogate this remark. Instead, he seized the opportunity their proximity gave him. In a flash, he had the assassin's wrist between his fingers, and slid his own hand up to tug the dagger out of the elf's grip. Since they were nearly nose-to-nose, he couldn't miss the way those handsome - _handsome?_ \- amber eyes went wide. 

Unceremoniously, Nathaniel tossed the dagger over the parapet. "That’s what they taught me."

"Well! Not bad at all."

Wide and _pleased_ , Nathaniel realized suddenly. A moment later, he felt the bite of cold steel across his hip, followed by a warm trickle of blood. He looked down and saw that the assassin had found the gap below his leather cuirass with a second, right-handed dagger.

When their eyes met again, the elf was grinning. "But do you really think a Crow is so easily disarmed?"

Nathaniel grit his teeth. He angled his body away from the assassin's next strike, first left, then right. Too slow - the elf scored another glancing slice and Nathaniel roared. In petty, uncoordinated anger, he lashed out to stomp hard on the assassin's foot.

The elf hissed and dropped his dagger. As it clattered onto the cobblestones, he danced backward, bouncing on one foot. "These are new boots! That was very uncalled for."

In the following moment of stunned surprise, Nathaniel kicked the blade out of one of the battlement's arrow slits, where it slid off to join the first dagger somewhere below.

"You have any more blades on you?" Nathaniel taunted. "I can do this all night."

A few steps away now, the Crow leaned down, frowning as he brushed off some dirt from the toe of his boot. "Well, if you truly wished to keep me occupied all night," he glanced up with deliberate eye contact, "I can think of better things we could be doing." 

Nathaniel blinked. He had to chuckle at the audacity. "What, you're not enjoying yourself now?"

"Give me a real challenge, and I might enjoy myself more."

Surely, it was too dark for the assassin to make out Nathaniel's flush. It was part irritation, part embarrassment, part - well, it had been a dull few years squiring in the Free Marches. When was the last time someone had looked at him with that kind of smirk?

But although the smirk was very good, it wasn't distracting enough that Nathaniel missed the elf retrieving a third dagger from his boot - or the fourth dagger that fell from his right sleeve into his gloved palm as he straightened up.

"I find myself in a generous mood," the assassin said softly. "So I shall offer you one final chance to make your retreat. Rest assured, the Warden-Commander will be dealt with."

The Warden-Commander. Right. That's what he was here for. "Piss off, Crow. My business with her is personal - "

Nathaniel was barely prepared when the elf lunged for him. Truly on the offensive, he was a wonder - lightning-fast, precise, with feints scarcely distinguishable from true attacks. Every step forced Nathaniel backward, closer to the pile of crates at the base of the tower. Between strikes that Nathaniel strained to deflect, the elf spoke with maddening cheer.

"Since you’re merely an amateur assassin - " _slash_ " - allow me to teach you something else - " _stab_ " - the sound that caught your attention earlier was a pebble I threw. Keep an eye out for that sort of brilliant, subtle trickery." The tip of one dagger was suddenly angled toward Nathaniel's face. He swayed out of reach, a centimeter away from losing a piece of his goatee. "Not really a Crow technique, mind you, more of a Zevran original."

“Zevran. That's your name, is it?" Nathaniel spoke between heavy breaths. His back scraped against one of the wood crates.

Zevran parried his next wild blow, then swept one arm out in an exaggerated bow. "Zev to my friends. And I’ll save you the trouble of an introduction, Nathaniel Howe."

"You know me?"

The assassin ignored the question. Instead, he made a particularly wicked lunge with both blades. Nathaniel waited until the last possible moment, then pitched to the side. Zevran's right-handed dagger sunk into a crate labeled as Orlesian hard cheese. When he tried to pull it loose, it held fast. Zevran frowned and gave the hilt another tug, then had to release it suddenly when Nathaniel's blade came down where his wrist had been. 

Zevran sighed and reached behind him to pull a dagger from what looked like the back of his neck - beneath his hair? He twirled it idly and it caught a flash of starlight.

Nathaniel grit his teeth. "How many of those bloody things do you have?"

"Let's just say, enough to get the job done."

Zevran advanced on him again. At least now, Nathaniel had his back to the length of the ramparts - he couldn't be pinned on another crate or the tower wall. He knew that two blades against one gave him unlikely odds. He could barely spot the places he had to parry, let alone sneak in strikes of his own. A brilliant feint left Nathaniel scrabbling after an unneeded dodge. He hated to admit it, but Nathaniel found himself just as impressed as he was frustrated. When was the last time he'd had a fight as thrilling as this?

"You know," Zevran continued conversationally, "everyone always wants to do their own assassinations. But then they run into obstacles, or it takes longer than expected, or the task requires training that they don’t happen to possess." Nathaniel tried for a counter-strike, but Zevran batted it away. "And in the end, they always wish they contracted out to a professional! Saves a lot of trouble, you see."

"The Warden-Commander murdered my father," Nathaniel shot back. "She blackened my family’s name."

"See? And you may be prone to rash mistakes, working as you are in the thick of your emotions. As a Crow, my work is entirely objective."

Nathaniel wasn't sure what was more annoying: Zevran's abilities, his disarming flirtation, or the simple fact that he would not shut up. Irritation blossomed into true anger, and his next parry was a vicious, twisting blow that smacked the dagger from the assassin's grip.

Another blade went sailing over the parapet. Zevran shook out his left hand - likely numb from the force of the blow. But he laughed, full-bellied and unselfconscious. "Well, you are quite skilled at one thing, I'll grant you that."

Nathaniel smiled despite himself, although his voice kept its sarcastic edge. "Glad you're having such a good time."

"Surely I am allowed to take some pleasure in my work. Particularly when I face a foe as cunning and handsome as yourself."

The once-over Zevran gave him was not what Nathaniel would call "looking respectfully." It warmed him from head to toe. In a sudden rush of adrenaline, laced with hope after his most recent disarm, Nathaniel stepped beneath Zevran's guard for a strike toward the assassin's neck. The hilt of Zevran's dagger locked against his own, and they found themselves face-to-face with only the breadth of their blades between them. Absurdly, Nathaniel thought of kissing him. 

Unfairly, Zevran bit his lower lip before his next remark. "From your technique, I'd guess you'd prefer to use a bow, yes?" His voice was soft and teasing. "Not a bad choice for a would-be assassin, but you might want to consider practicing something more close-range. Personal. Intimate."

If they stayed this close any longer, Nathaniel was simply going to kiss him. Unfortunately, Nathaniel had more pressing priorities for the evening, and kissing assassins sounded like more of a complication than subduing them.

Nathaniel pulled backwards, although it was a little slower than fighting form demanded. As they separated, the _shing_ of metal scraping metal pierced the night air.

Perhaps Zevran noticed. If he did, he made no comment. His next attack came as smoothly and precisely as the ones before it. 

They exchanged a few blows. Although he didn't seem to be tiring, Zevran didn't drawn another dagger to make a pair again. Could he finally be out? Surely five was as many as even a professional assassin could need.

After a quick pivot from Zevran, Nathaniel had to whirl a block an attack aimed for his back. As he turned, he found his blade trapped against Zevran's once more, their faces too close.

The assassin said brightly, "You know, I quite fancy the way you style your hair."

For the first time, Nathaniel considered their similar braids. He gave a bemused little frown. "Thank you. I, er - like yours too."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "You don't do this much, do you?"

Nathaniel applied a bit more pressure to their crossed blades. Zevran might have been quicker, but Nathaniel knew he was stronger. The elf's own blade trembled closer to his neck.

"Duel and then win?" Nathaniel smirked. "I do it all the time."

Zevran's chuckle sent a shiver down his spine.

Abruptly, the assassin stepped sideways, separating their blades. Nathaniel found himself leaning on nothing, his weight off-balance. But instead of pitching forward, Zevran caught him by the wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back. Nathaniel grit his teeth against the pain, but after a final, savage twist, he cried out with no choice but to drop his dagger. He heard Zevran shove it away with his foot, clattering a ways down the cobblestones.

With a snarl, Nathaniel drove his other elbow back. Perhaps the inelegance caught Zevran off-guard. It connected with the Crow's solar plexus with a satisfying thud. Zevran lost his grip on Nathaniel's arm. With a wild swing, Nathaniel smacked the assassin's dagger out of his weakened grip. It fell to the cobblestones at an angle, half-propped against the base of the rail. When Nathaniel drove his boot down onto it, the blade cracked away from its hilt.

Human and elf faced one another, chests heaving. They turned as one to look down the walkway, toward Nathaniel's blade glinting on the cobblestones a few paces away. Nathaniel braced his back foot to take off running. He saw Zevran do the same.

"Well," Zevran said softly. "With only one dagger, which one of us will finish the job?"

Nathaniel didn't bother with a retort. He tore down the ramparts and made it six steps before he felt a sharp pain in the vicinity of his kidney.

Four more steps and the movement he'd intended as "reaching down" had become "falling down." His knees scraped the cobblestones in a smear of blood. His fingers closed around the dagger's hilt, but his grip was kitten-weak and shaking.

"Final lesson," Zevran called out. "Try not to fight fair unless you absolutely have to."

Nathaniel's head spun. He found he couldn't turn around, but he heard Zevran's boots clicking towards him as he approached. He came into view as he knelt beside Nathaniel, tugging the dagger from Nathaniel's fingers with effortless calm, before shoving it casually into one of the sheathes across his back. 

Next, Zevran put a hand on Nathaniel's chest. Before he had time to register that he was being braced, Nathaniel let out a choked sound as Zevran pulled a tiny stiletto out of his back. One more bloody dagger. He'd thrown the thing. The wound hadn't been deep, but the grooves of the stiletto ran with an inky black liquid. 

Zevran held it aloft before Nathaniel's face for his inspection. "I admit, you impressed me, Master Howe. I would not have poisoned you if you hadn't, so please, consider it a compliment." He sheathed the little stiletto below the skirt of his armor, somewhere against his thigh. Nathaniel contemplated Zevran's thighs. Distantly, he wished he'd just thrown the whole fight and seen what had happened if he'd taken him up on his offer to do something else all night.

Had Zevran noticed his attention shift thigh-ward? The elf gave him a fond little smile. "But here is the real reason I know you can't kill the Warden-Commander tonight. She hasn't arrived in the Keep just yet." 

Nathaniel could only blink as Zevran took his chin in one gloved hand, looking critically at his eyes. Nathaniel couldn't focus closer than the middle distance. He imagined his own pupils blown strangely wide. But he had enough facial control left to screw up his brows in soft consternation.

Zevran continued, "The seneschal told me she's still on the road from Denerim. Apparently, a cart got stuck in some mud and her party spent hours unsticking it. Ah, but that's Ferelden for you."

Nathaniel's mind was turning hazy. "Then what are you... "

"What am I doing here? As it happens, the Warden-Commander is a dear friend of mine. I'm simply looking after her interests."

"But you _are_ an Antivan Crow."

Zevran shrugged. "I was once. Now... only after a fashion."

"You - "

"I lied, yes. Perhaps you're familiar with the concept." 

Zevran stood and walked over to the barrel Nathaniel had shot by mistake. Deftly, he untied the rope from the arrow, and went back to secure Nathaniel's arms behind his back. The whole thing struck Nathaniel as a bit redundant, since he was woozy enough that he could scarcely keep himself vertical.

Zevran kept up his monologue as he bound Nathaniel's arms. "You know, I was rather hoping to put you off the whole murdering business." He laughed. "But you made it very difficult! By the way, I expect you'll be unconscious in a few minutes, but you'll come to again in an hour or so."

Zevran patted his cheek. If he could have, Nathaniel would have screamed. The stupid, handsome assassin continued in the same bright, indulgent tone. "In the meantime, I believe I will hand you over to the Keep's soldiers. You can wait in the dungeon until our Warden-Commander arrives and decides what to do with you. And don't worry. I shall tell everyone it took four Wardens to subdue you, or whatever would preserve your pride.

"But I can’t say this hasn’t been fun! If she decides to let you live, let’s do this again sometime."

Nathaniel's vision was darkening from grey to black. Still, he hoped Zevran heard him mutter, "Sure. Another time."

**Author's Note:**

> I like to imagine the Warden-Commander in question is DieRosenrot's Eryn Surana, but I kept it ambiguous for the sake of this fic not aligning with any timeline I'm aware of.
> 
> Thank you to Snarky_Warden, and friends C and Steeph for betaing!


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